


House Rules

by skeletonsmama



Series: House Rules Verse [1]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-13
Updated: 2013-11-09
Packaged: 2017-12-14 20:43:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 8,294
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/841183
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skeletonsmama/pseuds/skeletonsmama
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stuck to the fridge in the kitchen is a sheet of paper with ‘House Rules’ printed across the top. </p><p>Or: When someone thought it would be a good idea to let Bahorel, Grantaire, Enjolras and Combeferre live together</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Rules

**Author's Note:**

> So that thing turned into this thing and now.  
> I still have no idea what I'm doing.  
> Enjoy??

Stuck to the fridge in the kitchen is a sheet of paper with ‘House Rules’ printed across the top. 17 printed rules then run down, as well as additions scribbled in pen, permanent marker and, rather bizarrley, Japanese calligraphy pen. The rule written with the latter is, suitably, in Japanese. It says パンケーキが触るません から, なぜなら、あなた上に座りいます。三年間、日本語を勉強しています。ごめんごめん！

Grantaire had added it, after several incidents he had no desire to ever repeat.

The oringnal printed rules went as follows:

  1. No sleeping in the nude
  2. No locks on doors (and in ballpoint pen) _USE THE SOCK SYSTEM_
  3. Adhere to chore wheel or die
  4. ~~-Penalty for forgetting groceries is extra shopping weeks-~~ FORGET THE GROCERIES AND BE EATEN HANNIBAL-STYLE
  5. No sex on communal furniture (in pen) ***unless it's with each other
  6. If you’re going to smoke (tobacco or otherwise) do it in your room and open the goddamn windows
  7. Anyone found playing Britney Spears or Ke$ha at excessive volumes _no matter whose fault it is_ will have their music playing device _forcibly removed_ for 2 weeks. (in sharpie) THIS INCLUDES COURFEYRAC  
 _i dont even live here tho  
_ IRRELEVANT
  8. TV usage is to be decided on a majority rules basis. We have high speed internet for a reason, people. By extension, don’t use the xbox unless Grantaire has given explicit permission. (crossed out in red pen) ~~so only enjolras gets to use it then amirtie~~
  9. No experimental cooking in the house unless someone else is supervising.
  10. COMBEFERRE IS NOT PERMITTED TO COOK in which case he takes doubles of dish drying
  11. ENJOLRAS, COMBEFERRE AND BAHOREL HAVE ALL LOST THEIR BAKING LICENCES BY ORDER OF COSETTE AND GRANTAIRE AND ARE NO LONGER ALLOWED TO ATTEMPT TO PRODUCE BAKED GOODS only once they have reached 10 recipes experience on  their baking learners permit _under strict supervision_ of an experienced baker may they bake freely again.
  12. No unheadphoned instruments between 11pm and 7am on weekdays and 12am and 11am on weekends. Electric or otherwise. Bahorel that includes your drums.
  13. He is allowed to wake you with excessive bass drumming should you still be asleep at 12, however.
  14. DO NOT LEAVE USED CONDOMS IN THE BATHROOM. _EVER._ SEE ALSO RULE ABOUT SEX AND COMMUNAL THINGS PLEASE AND THANKS.
  15. Doors exist to be knocked upon. Knock thou, and nip trouble in the bud.
  16. Lock the fucking door if you leave okay swiper no swiping
  17. Oh and if you could leave the plant watering to Grantaire that would be A+ okay guys



 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Very rough translation of the Japanese: Do not touch my pancakes because I will sit on you. I have only studied Japanese for 3 years sorry sorry!!  
> Google translate is a liar!!


	2. Concerning Strays

_29\. no more stray anythings you little shits there is no room christ_

There was a man on their doorstep. He’d rung the bell, alerting everyone in their house and the five surrounding houses that yes, someone was at Fredrick, let me in. He was soaked to the bone, clearly lacking the foresight of an umbrella with the rain. Enjolras almost took pity on him. Almost.

His essay was flowing better than usual today. Bahorel would get the door eventually. Bone-soaked man could wait another few minutes.

Though now that he’d noticed him, Enjolras found he couldn’t stop his eyes or mind drawing back to the figure partially obscured by blinds. He was wearing a green beanie, nearly falling off his head with the weight of the water. Underneath it, black hair escaped only to be plastered against the skin at the side of his face. He had with him an old leather case and a duffle bag. Enjolras didn’t like what that probably meant. Especially considering he’d never seen the man before, let alone been introduced. Doubly considering how well the last two had turned out.

Leave it to Bahorel.

Speak of the devil; his footsteps are coming down the hallway now. He can just hear the small talk through the wall.

“Enjolras, stop being anti-social and come meet our new housemate!”

Well that certainly confirms his suspicions. He sighs as he pushes away from his desk.

“I know your name is on the lease and your parents own the house and all, but shouldn’t we discuss this as a household…” He stops just short of the kitchen, words dying on his tongue as he sees the most beautiful  boy he’s ever laid eyes on.

Attractive still-stranger in the kitchen is dripping all over the floor. He also appeared not to know this little bit of trivia.

“Is that why the rent share is so cheap? Because you’re sharing with 3 other people and your parents own the place?”

“Well yeah, that and this place is haunted as fuck.”

“What-“

Enjolras cuts in before it gets too out of hand. “Don’t question it.”

Attractive stranger raises his hands in defence. “Not questioning. Definitely not questioning. See?”

“Good. You’ll fit nicely.” Bahorel pats attractive still-stranger on the back. “So you know Combeferre, of course, now for proper introductions. Grantaire, meet Enjolras, Enjolras, meet Grantaire.” Attractive man has a name now. Although that did bring up…

“Shouldn’t we have a rule or something about bringing people to live with us without checking with everyone? Nothing against you,” Enjolras adds quickly. “Just that the last two people Bahorel tried to room with us…didn’t end so well.”

Grantaire looked positively ill. Crap, he’d probably scared him off. Backtrack. Backtrack fast. Was it too late to amend that? Attractive Grantaire was going to leave and go back to the rain and leave it to Enjolras to have a lapse of brain to mouth filter at this time, of any.

Bahorel then took that opportunity to demonstrate his utterly _excellent_ recovery skills.

“Don’t worry Enjolras, Grantaire’s not like them. Swear on my life.” He made a mock salute. “And I already politically vetted him, don’t worry.”

Bahorel's idea of politically vetting didn't inspire much confidence, but at least he wouldn't be a Republican. _  
_

Then he hands Grantaire a set of keys.

“Your room is up the stairs to the left. The one with the window that looks over the front yard, _not_ directly across from the stairs. Don’t go into that room, okay?” he paused briefly for a confused nod of conformation before powering on. “The little key is for your room, big key for the front door. Only rules are that Courfeyrac is the _only_ one allowed to throw parties, and pay rent and the kitty on time or let us know you can’t beforehand. Also there’s a bit of an obligation to come to at least one of Enjolras’s social justice meetings, now that you live here and he’ll probably rant about it at breakfast anyway. Might as well meet the rest of us. All good?”

Grantaire looks stupefied, but manages a nod. Bahorel spreads his arms.

“Welcome to Fredrick! That’s the name of the house. Fredrick. Also what we order pizza under.”


	3. The one about the microwave

_24\. NO METAL IN THE GODDAMN MICROWAVE_

It had been a week since Grantaire moved in. Nothing had gone wrong (yet), which Grantaire considered a miracle in itself. He’d also managed to mostly avoid  ~~the blonde~~ _Enjolras,_ as he was constantly mentally correcting. It wasn’t that he didn’t like Enjolras; just his gaze could get a little…intense at times. Like over breakfast on Wednesday. When he’d then proceeded to slop milk and cheerio’s down his front under it's close scrutiny. 

Only after Enjolras had left had Grantaire thought to actually ask about it. "Has he not been getting his Weetabix or something? I didn't think I was quite  _that_ bad to live with."

Combeferre looked up from his laptop to meet Grantaire's gaze. "Enjolras just needs time to adjust. Kind of like a cat. Two more weeks, you'll be golden. May I suggest trying to keep a lid on your world views until then, though? He might burst in a fit of rage and idealism if we're not careful with newcomers." Grantaire snorted.

"You compare Enjolras to a cat as if the comparison has come up before."

"It has. Many, many times, every single one of them out of his earshot." Combeferre says.

However that was earlier, and this is now, and Grantaire is hungry. There is leftover pasta in the fridge which, as he was informed by Jehan before he'd left the night before, he was one hundred precent as entitled to as the rest of the house. Bless Jehan, and his wonderful, reassuring soul.

 Enjolras happened to be the only other one at home this Saturday afternoon. Confirmed by how Against Me! was currently playing at a frankly outrageous volume from the study.

This was okay. Grantaire could deal with being home alone with Enjolras without Combeferre or Bahorel as a buffer as long as he stayed in the study. It was fine.

He put the bowl in the microwave, every intention of taking it upstairs with him so he could study in relative silence apparently not afforded downstairs because Enjolras liked his music loud and angry.

Then the microwave started making crackling noises and  _fuck._ There was a bad smell permeating the air. Inside it looked like one of the plasma ball things he'd seen as a kid, little arms of lightening coming out against the walls. Only with added fire. And smoke _._  The fire alarm went off. Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck.

“ _Fuck.”_  What are you meant to do when the microwave starts acting like a demon incarnate for no apparent reason? Should he open the door or find the fucking fire extinguisher or—

Okay he may have accidently left the aluminium foil covering the top on, and possibly a fork, but the whole exploding microwave thing didn't actually happen, right?

He doesn’t have to figure it out. Enjolras is there, grabbing the fire extinguisher from where it is over the stove. He opened the door, spraying white foam into the still flaming interior. 

“Don’t put metal in the microwave okay? This is the third time this year and I don't think the microwave can take much more abuse.”

“I didn’t—I mean...I just wanted lunch. What’s wrong with wanting lunch?!” His voice may have raised several octaves, but he could blame terror. Definitely not how  _amazing_ Enjolras looked as he promptly saved Grantaire's life. Okay, maybe not  _saved his life_ per say, but did stop anything else from catching on fire. No, no, it was defintely terror. The microwave did momentarily turn into the devil, after all. Even if now it was fairly sad looking, covered in dripping white foam with the door hanging open pathetically.

Enjolras just gave him a look and shoved the fire extinguisher into his hands before stalking back to whichever study he'd been occupying moments earlier.

Grantaire had been living there a week and only a few things had gone wrong. Maybe, though, maybe this would turn out okay.

***

The house was quiet enough that Grantaire could here Enjolras thumping up the stairs. The sounds stopped when it reached outside the door, and yeah, normal, Enjolras's room is up the ladder outside his door. Only then there was a tentative knock on his door before it was being pushed open before waiting for answer.

"Do you want to grab lunch with me or something? I need a break and unless you ate something else I figure you haven't eaten either." Enjolras wasn't glaring at him anymore, cool green eyes not glazing over in anger simply because of Grantaire's presence. This was nice. For the first time in a week he didn't feel unwanted by the blonde man, and while it wasn't exactly  _wanted_ it was certainly an improvement. Maybe he should accidently leave the foil on his reheating lunch more often.

"Sure thing, Apollo. Just a sec while I grab my coat."

The glare was back, momentarily, probably at the state of his room. Yes, he'd only been living there for two weeks, no, the mess was not entirely his fault, no, he didn't care at all. "You're room is worse than mine. Seriously. How have you managed that?"

Grantaire snorts. "Worse than yours? I never took you for the floordrobe type. I like to think its a unique combination of skill, sloth, and not caring a single fuck about most of my possession’s."

"What about your art stuff? My room's so messy half the time you can barely get into it."

The god had a flaw after all, apprently. _And_  was more observant than he let on. Then again, it didn't take much skill to infer Grantaire's major. Either way "Notice I said most. My art supplies are my babies and shall be protected from stray feet and flaming microwaves and Bahorel at all costs. Literally costs. Half of that shit cost's a fucking mint."

"You good?"

"Yeah, all set for you to sweep me off my feet." The look on Enjolras's face was well worth the comment. Gray eyes meet green and with a curt nod they were downstairs and out the door, walking close to be heard over the harsh wind.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was gross to write but I wanted to get something up. Better things coming in the next few days, promise.


	4. The one about sleeping naked

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> mostly un-beta'd, so all mistakes are my own

_1\. No sleeping in the nude_

Grantaire thought he was hallucinating when he walked into the lounge to see a naked man with wild black hair sleeping (face down, thankfully) on the couch. There's a smooth, russet expanse of back exposed, which is certainly nice to look at, even half-asleep.

“I thought Jehan had kept me  _off_ the weed last night…” he muttered himself. Jehan, who was still upstairs mumbling things about  _coffee_ and  _two sugars thanks R._

Naked man then woke with a start, head flying up as he looked around. His eyes settled on Grantaire, and he had a distinct feeling of being mentally undressed. Even with his eyes lidded from sleep the man gave off a certain air in his gaze. You -- prey. Me -- predator.

He then stuck out a hand. “The name’s Courfeyrac. I got in late with Enjolras last night and he relegated me to the couch. You’re the new guy?”

“No, I’m just here to collect the stick from up Enjolras’s arse, apparently. Since when does  _he_  get in late?” Grantaire shook the outstretched hand, as Courfeyrac’s face broke out in grin.

“I think I’m going to like you. And you’ll probably want to give it back when I tell you it was actually because of an intense study session. That became a very drunken study session. So I crashed here.”

That answered the question that Grantaire had asked, however none of the ones he wanted to ask. Namely, why  _exactly_  are you naked, and, does this happen often?

Grantaire shrugs and moves into the kitchen. “Would you believe I’ve never even seen him drink? Then again I’ve only known him for two weeks. You want coffee?”

“If you’d be so inclined. Yes. The wonderful liquid of the Gods second only sweet, sweet inebriation making thingy. Alcohol. That’s the one. What's your name, by the way?”

Grantaire hummed in agreement before replying. "Call me Grantaire, or R. I respond to either. I also respond Funny French Dude, but only on Tuesday's, and not without lamenting the missed chance for some absolutely awful alliteration." Courfeyrac laughed in response, head flopping back against the couch.

The kitchen was relatively large and relatively nice, even if the tiles felt too cold on his bare feet in the morning. The coffee machine hissed and steamed as worked, Grantaire only just remembering he had to make three cups now instead of two.

It was as he was handing a mug to Courfeyrac (“Milk and three sugars, thanks.” “Dude how does that even count as coffee?”) that a mortified and positivly _disheveled_ looking Enjolras appeared at the end of the hall.

“Courfeyrac, your clothes are in my room.”

Courfeyrac smirks. “Yes Enjolras, they are. Hence why I am presently naked as the day I was born.”

“Why are your clothes in my room?”

“Because you kicked me out. Very nearly literally, I might add. Remind me never to get on the wrong side of a drunk, sleep deprived Enjolras again, will you Grantaire?”

Well. That answered the rest of Grantaire’s questions.

* * *

 

Courfeyrac was a Scorpio, liked trashy romance novels and even trashier pop music played at high volumes. He was also now clothed and making conversation with Jehan, who'd decided to venture downstairs at the sound of Enjolras's frustrated stomping.

They knew each other, apparently. Jehan also knew Bahorel and Combeferre, which was surprising to say the least. It was through Enjolras's Les Amis club, or whatever it was called. Grantaire was, apparently, going to the meeting tomorrow, even if they had to drag him by the skin of his teeth. To which he helpfully informed the both of them that teeth do not, in fact, have skin, and that they both should know that by now, considering they're friends with a biomed student who could get terrifyingly intense at times. Bahorel cuffed him on the back of the head for that as he entered the room, clad in nothing but boxers and what Grantaire's mostly sure were Combeferre's reading glasses perched on his nose.

"Ow, what the fuck was that for?"

"For being a fucking wanker."

"Oh fuck you." The two of them descended into familiar good-natured bickering, a groove Grantaire was more than happy to return to after their friendship had stalled and gone patchy during high school. He still couldn't believe his fucking luck; that he'd been able to get out of the shithole he'd been in before and fall back in with some of his best friends at the same time. 

They paused momentarily when Courfeyrac stood up suddenly, pointing at Grantaire. "You said you've known Combeferre for a while. How long and, really, how?" 

"Um. We've been friends since we were little kids? Our parents knew each other so, uh, yeah..." Courfeyrac, seemingly satisfied, sat back down with the grace of an elephant. That is to say, nearly fell of his chair before gripping the table for dear life and righting himself.

Soon both Jehan and Courfeyrac were leaving, both claiming work.

Enjolras finally returns from upstairs, looking refreshed and showered and visibly relieved by the lack of Courfeyrac. "So, Apollo returns! Feel better after taking your rage out at the shower wall?"

Enjolras lets his head drop against the table before replying. "If you call me Apollo one more time I will rip your balls off and shove them down your throat. And then possibly punch you across the face."

Grantaire gulps and makes a mental note to keep the stupid fucking nickname in check. "Guess you didn't take as much anger out on the shower wall as you would've liked?"

"It's not that I don't like Courfeyrac. I love him. Dearly. He's just incredibly tiring. Especially when I'm trying not to scare off the first decent house mate we've had in months.  _Months!"_ Grantaire's incredibly glad that Enjolras is still face down on the table, as he doesn't quite know how he'd explain the flush spreading across his cheeks at the possibly-backhanded compliment. He's also glad Bahorel knows when to keep his mouth shut.

"Dont worry Enjolras, takes more than a naked stranger on the couch to scare me off!"

"I'm glad," he responds drily, turning his head to meet Grantaire's eyes. "Considering you  _aren't_ in fact scared off right this moment, would you mind doing that thing you do with the coffee maker and get me a cup?"

Enjolras tries not wince at the sharp bursts of laughter. Bahorel and Grantaire were terrible company when every sound seemed like it was on full blast and every movement made your brain grate against your skull and  _fuck_ Enjolras was never letting Courfeyrac talk him into " _just a few drinks"_ again.

"You're hung over, aren't you? Oh christ, can I get a photo?" Was Enjolras willing to give up his dignity for coffee? Yes, yes he was.

"Make me some and you can give me plaits and put flowers in my hair for all the fucks I give this morning. Please."

The table was quiet. The table was cold against his head. The table was _wonderful._ The table did not yell (okay,  _say)_ "coming right up!" in his ear. The last one, that one was Grantaire. It was also followed by the obnoxious click of a camera phone. Brilliant.

(He didn't mind so much later though, when coffee the way he liked it along with two aspirin was placed gently in front of him and they left him alone as they went and did whatever they usually did on weekends.)

Enjolras was by no means a religious man, but in the moment he would have blessed Grantaire and whatever made him so good with their shitty coffee machine.

Hell, he would've blessed Grantaire for just about anything.  



	5. The one about Montparnasse

_19\. Montparnasse is banned from entering the house._

There are several things Grantaire has come to be prepared for as he opened the front door. Having a skeleton drop down in front of him, for example. The dining table on its side and blocking the stairs, for another. However, Grantaire is not prepared to have Bahorel yank him forcefully into the study, clamping a hand over his mouth. Courfeyrac was there too, looking a unique combination of frustrated, and downright glum. Grantaire struggled against Bahorel, but Bahorel had used the element of surprise, which turned out to be super effective. Grantaire started to cry out, but Bahorel clamped a hand tightly over the bottom half of his face before he made any decent noise.

“Shut up, we need your help coming up with a plan,” says Courfeyrac.  


Grantaire continued struggling, though considering Bahorel was the one holding him, it was quite useless.  He didn’t even let go as Grantaire licked the hand over his mouth.

“Gross, dude. You could just have asked.” Grantaire doesn’t even bother groaning as he’s released.

“So what do you need a plan for? And why do I have to be the one making it?” Though he was already thinking what had become an ingrained motto over the past months

Just go with it. The phrase Enjolras had said on his first day had been repeating itself constantly. Just go with it. Combeferre needs to borrow a jacket and a left shoe? Just go with it. Your laptop is smoking and making frankly terrifying noises on the kitchen island? Just go with it. Jehan is insisting on holding a whole house séance in the locked room across from your own? _Just go with it._

“Enjolras’s ex-boyfriend—“

“And our ex-housemate” Bahorel cuts in.

“Yes, yes, your housemate who was forcibly removed after setting Combeferre’s curtains on fire and stealing anything that wasn’t tied down, is sitting in the living room and probably going to start snogging Enjolras. On the couch. I sleep on that couch! You’re making the plan because you’re an art major, right? Which means you’re creative. Logic, see!”

Grantaire sighed. “I thought you said ex-boyfriend?”

“Ex-boyfriend, current fuck buddies. Apparently Enjolras really _really_ likes angry sex.”

Grantaire’s torn between cheering and crying. On one hand, _angry sex_. On the other hand, _angry sex that won’t be with him._ Ahem.

“So, ex-housemate is in the living room, you want to…remove him?”

“Yes! Please!” upon realising how loud he was being, Courfeyrac dropped to a stage whisper. “Before the couch is defiled, if possible. We can’t just _tell_ him to leave, because then Enjolras gets pissed off and will probably glare our ears off. We need to do something…dramatic. Leave them vaguely confused and too dumb-founded to actually react. As long as it gets Montparnasse out of the house, I don’t give a fuck what you come up with.”

“Wait, wait, Montparnasse? As in Henry ‘I-like-knives-and-designer-clothes’ Montparnasse?”

“Yeah, that’s the one. You know him?”

“…You could say that. Knowing Montparnasse though, that’s probably not the only reason you want him out. Pray tell?”

Courfeyrac shares a look with Bahorel. “Should I let him down gently, or rip it off like a band-aid?”

“Band-aid. Defintely band-aid.” Bahorel says.

Courfeyrac takes a breath. And then another. Only when Bahorel coughs does he manage to get anything out. “Well okay. Can we let it be known I am the kinkiest fucker—“

“Pun intended?”

“Piss off. I am the kinkiest fucker you will ever meet, except maybe Jehan. However when you put Montparnasse and Enjolras together…”

Bahorel coughs again, sounding suspiciously like “band-aid”.

“Shut _up._ Okay last time Montparnasse brought his knives and I’m _mostly_ sure they were blunt but still—,”

 “That’s enough, thanks. I get the picture.” A very, _very_ nice picture.

At least he knew what he was going up against, Grantaire supposes. It still didn’t stop the uncomfortable heavy feeling settling in his stomach. Jealousy, his mind helpfully informed him. You can’t have Enjolras. Fucking Montparnasse gets him instead.  

He shook his head, making eye contact with Courfeyrac.

“What do you have so far?”

He shrugs and lists the items off on his fingers. “We have a broom, lots of heavy medical textbooks -- okay four heavy medical textbooks, and pure bloody minded willpower. And no plan, can’t forget that.”

Not much to go on, but Grantaire was creative. He could pull a MacGyver. He totally could.

“Okay, this is what we’re going to do…”

***

Enjolras is probably going to be pissed off anyway. There wasn’t really an option in which he could come out not pissed off. Only this way he’ll probably glare at them later, as opposed to right away.

Grantaire hangs back, filming from the stairs with Courfeyrac’s phone. They were chasing Montparnasse out of the house with a _broom_. He wanted evidence.

Bahorel and Courfeyrac creep out of the study, still trying to be as silent as possible. They’ve each got two hands on the broom, holding it almost as one would a ramming log, bristles forward. Grantaire has a feeling that Courfeyrac probably won’t have his on much longer though, with how fast Bahorel tends to run.

In three, two, one…

They let out a war cry, charging down the hall. As predicted Courfeyrac is more running alongside now. Bahorel raises the broom at where Enjolras and Montparnasse are already heatedly making out on the couch and whacks Montparnasse. Then again, and for a third time.

“Get out, get out, _get out!”_

Montparnasse falls off the couch in a fit of swearing and manages to choke out “What the _fuck?!”_ before Bahorel brings the broom down on him again. He and takes off down the hallway, still being abused by Bahorel and Courfeyrac’s shouts and the broom.

“ _Don’t come back either you motherfucker!”_


	6. The one with the meeting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh wowow this took way too long. updates will hopefully be more regular from now on. as always huge thanks to erica for literally everything <33

_26\. Meetings are to be attended by ALL tenants unless u actually have a legit excuse then we’ll see_

Grantaire’s first Les Amis meeting didn’t actually happen until the week following. Courfeyrac blamed a stray pig and copious rain for the cancellation of the meeting. Grantaire’s not sure if that’s 100 percent true or not, but has found it best to leave Courfeyrac to be Courfeyrac.

It has been three days since the Montparnasse incident. Enjolras no longer scowls every time he catches sight of one of them. Grantaire had gotten a phone call from Montparnasse in one of the days following, which was certainly less than pleasant, but at least he wouldn’t be coming around again.

Grantaire ends up seated between Bahorel and someone with a shock of red hair named Feuilly. They seem intent on discussing a mixture of arm wrestling, actual wrestling, current affairs and their personal (sex) lives over the top of him.

Courfeyrac comes over, a few minutes before the supposed meeting is supposed to start.

“Okay, look, I’ve got a confession. I lied a bit. This is less of a meeting, more of a…coming together of friends and other various individuals with a common interest.”

“You know that is the dictionary definition of a meeting, right?”

“Shh. It’s story time. We also plan illegal things. I hope you’re not put off by breaking the law. You didn’t strike me as a law-abiding citizen though. No offense, of course.”

“None taken. Tell me though, why exactly are you planning illegal things? Isn’t activism normally…sponsored by shit or something?”

“We were, for a while. Then Enjolras went and fucking got himself arrested,” Courfeyrac raised his voice and shot a pointed look at Enjolras, who responded by completely ignoring him, “and the name of our group kind of…tarnished. Charity groups wouldn’t touch us with a ten foot pole, and we needed their support. Even Enjolras’s allowance doesn’t extend that far…”

Enjolras had come over now. “The Government likes to think they managed to squash us. They haven’t. We’re just slightly more illegitimate now. Remember the huge illegal protest over education funding cuts last year?”

“Can’t say I do.”

Enjolras scoffed. “Did you not even glance at a headline for an entire month?”

Grantaire’s face darkened. “I was in Japan for 12 months on an exchange before I moved in with you, so _excuse_ me for not putting catching up with the pettier parts of local news as a priority.”

“You were in Japan?” The surprise on Enjolras’s face, coupled briefly with realisation is absolutely _palpable._

Combeferre could sense an argument about to occur and intervened. “Hey R, you never actually told me anything about Japan and you’ve been back a month already. Share?” He raised a curious eyebrow and then Grantaire was grinning again, leaning over the table to share stories, particularly one about the time he did too many shots of shochu and ended up tied to a headboard on the opposite side of Tokyo to where he was staying.

The meeting ended up being incredibly casual. Much more casual than Grantaire expected from a group led by Enjolras. There were only about eight people there, and Courfeyrac explained how a lot of people didn’t like, you know, breaking the law and stuff. They used to be bigger, he said, much _much_ bigger, but a lot of the group didn’t take the entire ‘fuck the government’ thing quite as seriously as they did and had left.

After barely an hour most of the group had dispersed. Feuilly and Bahorel were going on a pub crawl for the rest of the evening, an invitation to which Grantaire had reluctantly declined.

“Got work,” he said with a sigh, before saying goodbye to Enjolras with a bow. “I shall be back next week, Mr. Social Justice.”

“I have a name, you know.”

“Sure thing, Dew Drop Fairy. I’ll see you all later.”

***

It was what Bahorel (and in turn, most of the Amis) had taken to calling date night. Once a month Enjolras, Combeferre and Courfeyrac would actually go out for dinner after a meeting and use the evenings as a mixture of planning, socialising and contriving. Tonight they’d picked a little Thai place that Courfeyrac swore, verbatim, “like fireworks and sex had a baby and that baby was in fact food”.

A waiter came over to take their orders.

“Hey, what can I do for you? My name’s—oh you’ve got to be fucking joking.”

Combeferre looked up from his menu and started when he saw Grantaire, looking bemused.

“Hi there Fucking Joking, I’ll take number 27 with a side order of roti.”

Grantaire gives him a look. “Very funny. If anybody else would be so inclined to order, I promise I won’t spit in your food. Courfeyrac, you look like you’re on the verge of an aneurysm.”

Courfeyrac unscrunched his face and simultaneously let out a laugh which drew a withering gaze from more than one surrounding table.

Grantaire scowled down at them.

"Nice apron, R,” Courfeyrac says.

"Yeah, yeah, nice fucking...nice fucking face.” That just causes Courfeyrac to laugh harder, and Grantaire turns his attention back to the other two.

“I didn’t know you worked here. The black suits you.” Combeferre notes and Grantaire doesn’t miss the way his gaze lingers on his torso (currently clad in a ridiculously tight black shirt – Grantaire suspects Eponine had something to do with the uniform) and lips.

“Well thank you _darling,_ but I really should get back to work. Either of you two going to order something?” Courfeyrac and Enjolras gave their orders, Enjolras suspiciously quiet and _not_ making eye contact with Grantaire.  “Your meal will be here shortly, yada yada yada. Keep plotting or scheming or whatever you were doing before I interrupted.”

“We’re not scheming. Only preparing things of slightly illicit nature, which may or may not involve burning things. Off you go.” Combeferre slapped Grantaire’s ass as he walked off and didn’t even have to turn around to know Grantaire was smirking.

As soon as Grantaire was out of earshot Courfeyrac turned to Combeferre. Enjolras was pointedly continuing to look at the table, trying to ignore the flush that was creeping up his neck.

“Is there something you haven’t been telling us, Combeferre?” Courfeyrac says with a raised eyebrow.

Combeferre gave a small laugh. “We’re just friends, don’t worry. Yes, we do have a bit of history. Grantaire likes a bit of fun, I like a bit of fun, and it was a good system.”

“Was?” Enjolras’s head snaps up sharply from where its gaze was fixed on the incredibly interesting tablecloth pattern.

“Well, look,” Combeferre says, “he stayed on my couch for 3 weeks a year ago after 6 months of radio silence and promptly disappeared to Japan for a year. Flirting is about as far as it goes.”

Fifteen minutes later as Grantaire brings their food out, Courfeyrac and Enjolras would beg to differ.

After placing all three of their meals down (“And the conveniently vegetarian meal for Mr. Social Justice.”) Grantaire walked up to Combeferre and placed a long, disgustingly wet kiss on his mouth.  Courfeyrac and Enjolras looked on in frozen shock.

“Payback,” was all he said as he walked off.

The self-satisfied smirk stayed on his lips for the rest of the evening, and his taste stayed on Combeferre’s.

“What’s a little kiss between friends? He used tongue too, the saucy bloody minx.”

“Dude, is that even sanitary? Or legal?”

The three of them stayed until the end of Grantaire’s shift, insisting that he may as well ride with them instead of catching the bus. Two out of three _lived_ with him, after all. They stood shivering out the front of the restaurant, waiting for Courfeyrac to bring his car around.

Enjolras stood close to Combeferre, leaning into his ear to whisper, “I am befuddled, probably a little disgusted and considerably jealous. Can we talk when we get back?” completely deadpan. Combeferre lets out a laugh that gets snatched up by the wind, a laugh that makes Grantaire look over a smile tentatively and _fuck_ Enjolras can’t stop thinking about the way his entire face _shifts_ when he smiles and it’s so _lovely_ and--

“Of course, Enjolras. I’d be surprised if you didn’t want to talk. I’ll make coffee when we get back.”

Then Courfeyrac is there with the car and they’re headed home, to what Enjolras hoped wouldn’t become one of the most awkward conversations of his life.


	7. The one in the cemetery

_35\. Illicit activites containing tenants may no longer involve any of the following:_

_-cemeteries_

_-PORNOGRAPHY (pointed looks at R and Bahorel)_

_-skittles (in fact, blanket ban on skittles. Ever. In the house.)_ BUT COMBEFERRE HOW WILL U TASTE THE RAINBOW THEN

_-A/V or lighting equipment (!!!)_

This graveyard was as graveyards should be; cold, dark and clichéd.

Combeferre said it looked like rain.

Bahorel whacked him on the back of the head and told that they were breaking into _a cemetery_ ; there wasn't any thinking capacity left to be sensible about the weather.

 There were six of them, that night. Bahorel and Courfeyrac were undoubtedly the instigators, but that's not to say the rest didn't go along willingly. Eagerly, even, in all but Combeferre's case.

This was how Grantaire’s house mates really met Jehan.

"I have a mate from my classic tutorials over. You remember Jehan, yeah? Is it all good to fix an extra place…?” Grantaire had come down the stairs to see Bahorel trying on a balaclava and Courfeyrac dutifully replacing the batteries of several torches.

"Oh, hello Grantaire. Would you're friend be interested in completing activities of a vaguely illicit nature? Cemeteries and filming burning things is going to be involved. Don’t worry," Courfeyrac added quickly, seeing the alarm on Grantaire's face, "we're not desecrating graves or shit like that. It's a message video, which will involve burning various things. And, you know, hopefully no one will _die_ if we film it in a _cemetery_ as opposed to anywhere else. Also Enjolras liked the idea of doing it in front of some important person grave. Good important, like, Enjolras can quote them important. So?"

Grantaire thought for a moment. "Yeah, he'll be interested. Give us a yell when you're heading off.”

"Sure thing." Bahorel called back. And then-- "In case you hadn’t realised, Enjolras is coming."

Grantaire curses as he misses the last step and stumbles into his room. He could be a little slow on the uptake, at times.

" _Fuck."_

 

***

It starts raining before they get there. They are, in fact, still 3 blocks away. No one else is about, but that's only to be expected from the world at 2.30 in the morning on a Thursday.

Bahorel had, incredibly enough, drawn them a route which avoided the pubs in the area.

"Pubs are more well lit, you shitheads,” he’d explained. “It takes longer, but fuck, better than getting caught with gasoline, lighters and balaclavas on your way to a boneyard."

“Who the fuck actually says boneyard?” Grantaire points out and the two of them descend into a whispered argument with words like “pirates” and “bikies” drifting forward to the rest of the group.

Then they reached the cemetery.

As it turned out, only two of them had ever actually scaled a fence before, let alone one with violent-looking spikes across the top.

“You know, I don’t think you thought this through. At all,” Combeferre says through chattering teeth. The rain hasn’t stopped.

“If we walk around there should be better access. It’s just that _Bahorel_ directed us _to the wrong fucking side_.”

“Courf, you _are_ the one who said pub free.”

“Yes, yes, I also assumed you’d be able to get us _to the right side of the pitch black graveyard!”_

“Calm it, we’ll just walk. Quite a bit. No biggie.” Bahorel says.

Courfeyrac sighs. “Lead the way.”

They finally reached a place where there was a break in the imposing spike fence. A hastily erected chicken-wire temp-fence was scaled easily, even with the danger of it collapsing under Bahorel.

"Does anyone have a torch?" Jehan asks once they’re all inside. Combeferre hands one over with a firm but kind warning and distributes the rest of the torches.

"Don't get lost, don't get hypothermia, don't get separated and above all, if the cops come, run like hell and meet back at the house. All good?"  They were short one torch but Grantaire shrugged and said he'd just stick close. It was inevitable then, as they spread out, spotlights spinning in five different directions that someone was going to get separated.

Grantaire was first to realise. He'd hung back with Enjolras, making surprisingly civil conversation for once. Combeferre had taken Enjolras aside a few days earlier, explaining how considering Grantaire (mostly) met his standards for living with, he should stop switching between Frosty the Snowman and desperately smitten whenever he spoke to him. Enjolras had frowned but heeded the advice, and if Grantaire noticed the change in demeanour he certainly didn’t comment.

Enjolras had been laughing as Grantaire spoke about the time he got drunk on shouju and accidently ended up getting "Revolution is for lawbreakers. Good thing I'm a criminal,” tattooed in Japanese on his side.

"To be fair, the guy I was out with, Haruki, was really big on change and rebellion and that kind of thing. You'd get along well, I think. He got a matching tattoo." Grantaire finished his story and they kept walking forward in comfortable silence. Which is when they seemed to simultaneously come to the same conclusion.

"Fuck--,"

"Where did everyone else go--?"

Enjolras's torch picked that moment to flicker out.

" _Flying fucks,”_ Grantaire muttered before turning to Enjolras. “Did you bring your phone?”

 "I," he patted his pockets, "apparently did not. You?"

 "Nope. So we don't know where we are, have no light source, and can’t even film your message thingo because Bahorel was in charge of the video camera and fire stuff. Brilliant," Grantaire says. Enjolras looked grimly onto the darkness. "At least it isn’t raining anymore."

"Grantaire?"

 "Hmm?"

 "I feel as if this is an appropriate time to mention I am very irrationally afraid of the dark."

 "That _does_ explain the nightlight." Grantaire keeps his tone light, going for teasing. The effect is lost on Enjolras.

"Could I, um--," an icy hand clasps Grantaire's, grip painfully tight.

"Yeah, you know, anything you need Enjolras." Grantaire wasn't sure how he kept the sarcasm out of his voice. Maybe the cemetery was magical. Or something. Probably.

 "Maybe we should keep walking. Find the others." Grantaire nodded briefly in reply and they set off, hands still clasped tight. Enjolras's pulse was an anxious race against his hand. He tried (and failed) not to let his do the same. Enjolras was in his personal space (somewhat) willingly. That had to count for something, right?

***

"Hey, Jehan?" Combeferre called out.

"Hmm?"

"Are you still with R back there?"

 "He was right...here." Jehan turned around only to find empty space where Grantaire and Enjolras had been following a minute ago. "Or not."

Combeferre stops and Courfeyrac walks into him, not paying very much attention to his surroundings beyond the back of Combeferre’s head and the way his hair made weird shapes when it was wet. Then they heard a voice, coming from not too far away, that sounded suspiciously like Grantaire singing the Pokémon theme song.

Courfeyrac turns to Bahorel and grins. Combeferre sees the look they share and groans in defeat.

“Are you thinking what I’m thinking, B1?” Courfeyrac starts.

“Pretty fucking sure I am, B2.”

“Jehan, will you help us scare the two of them? Combeferre, I know you’ll be morally opposed to this so can you hold the stuff?”

***

“Grantaire, was that a noise?”

“I’m sure it was just an owl. Or something. C’mon, if we keep walking we might reach the other side and then we can walk home. Under street lights. And not in a graveyard.”

Their boots crunched gravel as they continued along the path. Grantaire continued humming whatever came to mind under his breath. It was better than the empty quietness that came with the place. Enjolras had gone from just holding Grantaire’s hand to attaching himself along the entire limb. His breath was huffing very close to his ear. It was felt pleasant, in sorts.

Enjolras stopped, pulling Grantaire back with a yelp of surprise. “No, really, that was definitely a noise. It was coming from that tree, I’m sure of it.” Enjolras started walking slowly backwards. Grantaire felt like he was going to need his arm amputated in the morning.

“Look, I’m sure it was just a--,” They collided with a solid, surprisingly warm object. Grantaire jumped, startled. Enjolras screamed bloody murder.

“ _HELP OH GOD HELP GRANTAIRE FUCK FUCK HOLD ME!”_

Spotlights flashed and shone on them and over the sound of Enjolras’s cries Grantaire can hear Courfeyrac’s distinctive laughter. Then Jehan joined in, and when Bahorel finally spoke Enjolras quieted.

“You should have seen your fucking faces, jesus christ. Jehan, praise you for owning a Polaroid, praise you.”

Enjolras let out a tentative laugh. “Can we just film and go home? Also Courfeyrac, you are never in charge of batteries again.”

Courfeyrac put on a mock hurt face. “I’m _wounded_ Enjy. _Wounded.”_ He looked over to the tree, as Combeferre and Jehan emerged. “‘Ferre, you heard the man.”

 

The video turns out surprisingly well, considering. They burn a flag in front of someone’s grave, Enjolras says a speech, etc. etc. Grantaire didn’t pay too much attention after that, content to explore (within eyesight and earshot) with Jehan.


	8. and so begun the prank war

_(In angry red letters, taking up half a page)  36. FOOD DYE IS TO REMAIN OUT OF THE BATHROOM. NO EXCEPTIONS._

The bathroom is neat and organised unlike most of the house. Most of the organisation comes from necessity as opposed to natural orderliness as one could see from the state of their rooms.

The remnants of blue food dye that had just missed going into the bottle are running down its side and pooling on the floor underneath it. It’s mixed in with the water left sitting after 3 showers a day. Enjolras doesn’t notice this as he picks up the bottle and soaps his hair.

He doesn’t notice much right now, having gotten in too late the night before and having to wake up too goddamn early this morning.

It was too early to be alive, in all honestly.

But he was, and he was here, and he was scrubbing shampoo mixed with blue food dye into his scalp. His didn’t bother cracking his eyes open as he washed it out.

There was now one significantly less-full blue tinted shampoo bottle on the bathroom floor. This came hand in hand with the outraged Enjolras that was now staring into the mirror, towel falling off his waist.

His hair was blue.

His hair was fucking _blue._

Grantaire’s room is closet, which is why he goes there first. Also possibly because he’s probably the culprit. But mainly because it’s closest.

He is still, predictably, asleep, as most sane people should be at this hour.

Well, that simply won’t do.

He pulls the covers off of Grantaire one handedly, resulting in not-quite even removal. The other hand is busy holding the towel up around his waist though. It wasn’t a bad removal though; Grantaire’s new tattoo peeked out from underneath the sheets, a broken clock across his hips that Enjolras hadn’t seen before. It suited him, he thought. It suited him a lot.

However it wasn’t enough to stop annoyance seeping into Enjolras. Enjolras didn’t want blue hair. Enjolras had a very important fucking meeting this morning that he was going to have to go to with _blue fucking hair._

“Grantaire, get up and explain this. You had something to do with this don’t even _try_ to deny it.”

Grantaire cracked his eyes, curling to his side. He couldn’t quite figure out who was at the end of the bed yet, not gotten past the “fuck off” stage of waking up. When he figured it was Enjolras talking in what wasn’t really an inside voice though, he felt blood drain from his face.

And then remembered the no sleeping in the nude rule.

Right.

Good. He is actually wearing boxers.

Now to address the Golden God himself.

“Stop stop stop stop stop. Back up. Start again. Give me a second to open my fucking eyes.”

Enjolras pauses in his near-shouting for a moment, lets Grantaire open his eyes.

He pales even further. Enjolras indulges again, enjoying the contrast of the dark bed head curls plastered against his face. It wasn’t something he got to appreciate very often, most the time Grantaire’s face ruddy from alcohol or covered by scarf and stubble.

Ahem.

Grantaire hasn’t said anything yet, instead mouthing wordlessly.

“Shit,” he finally manages to choke out, accompanied by a stuttered “B-B-Bahorel,” and frenzied pointing.

Enjolras spares a second to give him a tight smile of thanks before he crosses the landing and goes to force Bahorel’s door open. Only it wouldn’t open, and he managed to knock his forehead on the wood panel with the anticipated follow through. _Fucking—_

He distantly registers Grantaire stumbling into the landing behind him as well as the sound of Combeferre’s door opening. That’s irrelevant right now. What is relevant though, is getting to Bahorel.

“You know it’s funny,” Combeferre notes, “that wrapped in nothing but a towel even Bahorel is avoiding Enjolras’s wrath.”

“He’s barricaded himself inside the bloody room.” Grantaire says, each word punctuated with a laugh.

Enjolras is already done with the day and it’s barely 7am.

“Open the goddamn door Bahorel.” His voice is low and dangerous, a tone he normally reserved for when Grantaire insists on slurring his way through a drunken fight that’s already escalated beyond yelling.

Bahorel tries to sound nonplussed. And mostly fails. “I thought you’d like my barricade. You know. Revolution! Um.”

The two onlookers aren’t even trying to hold back their laughter anymore, even if Enjolras is struggling to see the amusement in the situation.

“You know Enjolras, it’s R’s fault, really. He told me the wrong shampoo bottle. He said it was Jehan’s, swear it. C’mon R, help me out.” Grantaire just laughs harder at the pleading.

“Hey, don’t go pinning this one on me. Last time I checked, you were the one who put the food dye in the shampoo in the first place. Not a bloody chance mate.”

The situation having hit a roadblock from there, with Bahorel refusing to dismember whatever barricade of furniture he’d amassed behind the door, Enjolras went to finish getting ready.

It takes over a week for the food dye to wash completely out of his hair. It takes a little under 12 hours for Enjolras to exact his revenge.

See, save for when he sleep-walked, Bahorel was the heaviest sleeper in the house.

Which is a big part of the reason that there was a dick shaved into the side of his head the next morning.

"Yes Enjolras, you are  _so mature!_ " Bahorel grumbled after rolling out of bed to see it in the mirror. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry this took a while ah but rl got in the way and then nano happened sO  
> some semblance of plot will be coming soonish ahh things r gettin intense  
> ALSO SUPER DOOPER SORRY FOR CONTINUITY ERRORS when i have more time i'll rework n things b/c this au kinda got away from me (yea thanks erica) but itll make sense eventually super dooper promise

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Not A Democracy](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5011930) by [Dorkangel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dorkangel/pseuds/Dorkangel)




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